Sin Cityby Montle Moorosi / 29.09.2009
(Nathan Zeno’s Preamble: Notes on VanFokKingTasties at Sun City Super Bowl)….
We were comped most graciously by the VFKT’s people to attend their concert at Spring Break Sun City (Where Fokofpolisiekar are know as, simply, Polisiekar) for two purposes. Mine ostensibly was to gather material for a theory I’m working on about why the reason this bunch of bands are important in local music is less about their music (which no matter whether you love or are indifferent to has nothing to do with my theory) and more about a terrific combination of social and economic circumstances that these boys took advantage of with amazing skill and dexterity. The second reason for this trip was so that my colleague could cover the story of the night. For some reason, because as we arrived I was wandering around polling fans and gathering information, the rest of my team came to regard me as some sort of buzz kill and basically abandoned me. When the concert started I was on my own.
The dilemma of wanting to watch and there being no alcohol allowed in the Super Bowl (I know, I know) led to me watching from the side of the stage (Note to stage manager: if a guy wanders on to stage holding a beer and says “Don’t worry I’m a professional” chances are he shouldn’t be there.) and getting to observe the faces of many of the fans. This was valuable research, watching the way they seemed to be more excited about being part of something than about the actual songs, but maybe that was because they were watching Van Coke Kartel and saving themselves for later acts. (Side Note: I only caught the tail end of Die Heauvels Fantasties who are in my opinion the best of the four bands, I will get into that at a later date). I wandered back stage to find some quiet to phone my photographer, he is not answering. I pass the free alcohol table indulge in some Jagermeister and get into a complicated conversation about a band that my opinion on almost always gets me into trouble with musicians.
I rush back to the hotel room to find my photographer. Nothing. I rush back to the Super Bowl, the greenroom section is now closed off. (Note to Greenroom bouncer: If the guy says he is with the band, maybe you should check to see if he has an armband to confirm this). I sit in the near empty outer green room (Only other people there are Tamara Day and she’s convincing this other guy of something). And then the people I had being trying to avoid so as to not cloud my critical opinion appear – members of the bands (Trying to avoid the band, in the green room? Answer, free beer, sorry.)
Laudo sits next to me and asks me who I am, somehow this develops into a conversation about my shoes, which ends up in me giving mine to him and getting his (Note: NEVER DO THIS, mine were new shoes and his are now sitting on my balcony emitting a smell that is not so much unpleasant as unfamiliar) and a conversation about another band who, quite frankly, I think Laudo hadn’t listened to enough or properly or something. It’s at this point that I realize the bulk of the evening is about to start and I rush back to the room to gather the photographer and my colleague to cover the gig. I had had a nagging feeling earlier in the day that, as the senior on this trip, I should have had the mini bar locked, but also in trying to avoid the tag of senior I flagrantly refused to do many responsible things (this fear of being the oldest also led to me realizing at the airport that I had the method of payment in my bag that should have been left with the others at the hotel, the guilt (a guilt particular to our small music/entertainment industry, one in which we know everyone and have to consider everyone’s feelings and often stifle our own opinion with muted barbs because we are afraid of having to justify ourselves to musicians or publicists or friends or whatever, not so much because we don’t feel like telling the truth or having an opinion but because we are tired of explaining it and basically need the free beer and food and tickets and whatever because we are constantly broke) of which I now feel has led to me typing this preamble) and the inability to do those things has led to my failure to see the rest of the concert or make the after party and also to the following series of rantings from my colleague….
“Hi Julle!” Sang the four heavily wet brained so called members of the press as they strolled aimlessly around the hotel lobbies and casinos of Sun City, a real solid bunch of inconsiderate fucks who operated like blank crazed children trapped in grown men’s bodies, while ogling and whispering filthy nothings into under aged girls’ ears with the morbid intensity of flies on a one week old egg and mayonnaise sandwich left in the sun.
Intent on ruining lives and reporting on god knows what except for the music, Nathan Zeno, Justin McGee, Jean Rene Oyangduausgs (Or something like that, he’s Congolese) and myself are going straight to hell in a black and chrome limousine before the end of the year for the things that happened in Sun City. Hell is not what I fear, it’s the overbearing shame and guilt that makes my stomach feel like a sack full of wet socks that acts as a substitute for hell. My eternal burning is the sight of seeing Nathan, his 130kg frame body riddled with patches of ashy brown hair, eating a lamb shank in nothing but a pair of boxers. That really fucked me up for life, his stomach looks like the mould for all those Eddy Murphy and Martin Lawrence fat suits used for movies like the Nutty Professor and Big Mama’s House.
And Nathan Zeno is a weird man: he’s 37 years old but looks like an obese 16 year old boy from middle America. He’s an ex-junkie and he loves to lament about his tales of being a journalist back when white people still used to go to Yeoville, but now he’s just fat, funny and still relies on his mother to take care of his finances and even flight arrangements. “Ja, let me ask my mom”, are his favourite words.
Our neighbours below us (the name of the hotel will not be named to save our dignity and a short prison sentence) could not believe that Jean Rene and myself were black; utter astonishment would be an understatement, but we were not surprised or offended because we expected this sort of thing since Sun City is generally known as the last place where lower to middle class white people can go on holiday without seeing too many black people swimming at the beach in their true religion jeans.
“Oh my god, are you guys really black? Yoooo.. I thought it was just those two white guys… are you guys from Joburg?”
We didn’t really reply to their questions, lies and deceit were the order of the day, Jean Rene told every girl that he met that I was from London and that Nathan and Justin were Belgian and spoke no English at all. I think I even overheard him say that he was a teacher at a school for special children with learning disabilities and that we were his students.
“Where are you guys from?” they kept asking, It was two girls with thick Afrikaans accents, their male friends or boyfriends stood beside as we taunted them with our gay accents chanting “Hi Julle! Hi Julle!” Soon more people were standing on their balconies joining in with the bombardment of questions, laughs, plain stares and the occasional, “can you keep it down?”
It was a circus of South Africa’s best animals. Nathan Zeno is half Jewish and half something else I forgot, probably Norwegian. Justin McGee is of Irish descent and his surname means son of lard and myself and Jean Rene are just wet backs, myself being originally born in Lesotho. Earlier in the day before we met Lerato in the sky with diamonds, Barry White, Al Green and drinking anything we could put our hands on, we marvelled at the baboons which naturally roam the area and even tried to climb up into peoples’ rooms. Now we were the baboons, echoing and mauling through the night in search of the next bowl of fruit or at least a life to ruin with our crusty anuses sticking out of our denim cut-off short shorts. The gay looking slut baboons and a boarish gorilla.
The amount of women to be found at Spring Break is awesome, especially if you like your women fresh stocked with trainer bras and rubber gloves filled with water to match. Jean Rene is always thought to be gay because of his neon orange short shorts and a penchant for designer underwear, but as he says, “I Like bitches hey!” All Jean Rene kept on saying to the girls was, “are you staying in room 351? Because we are.”
“Hi Julle! 351!”
Zeno and his lamb shank. Earlier in the day when we first got to the hotel, Nathan asked if any of us had a pair of size 9 shoes for him to wear for the night because his were either uncomfortable or just down right embarrassing to wear in public. I was in a good mood and feeling rather charitable so I decided to lend him my black plimsoles with red checkered detail, which my dear darling wife bought for me not too long ago. As the night progressed Nathan ventured off to the back stage area to hob knob with the rock stars and polish off their Jaegermeister and eventually got himself kicked out for throwing an acid tab into the drink of a female singer whose name we cannot mention, he returned to find us in the hotel room listening to Barry White with a lamb shank in his hand.
“Where the fuck did you get a lamb shank from?” I asked him as Justin and myself started laughing at the clichéd but none the less eternally funny sight of seeing a fat person eating.
“I swapped them for the lamb shank and these shoes.” He declared with a smile and look of triumph on his grilled lamb and mint stained face. I looked at his feet and he was wearing some mundane looking grey sneakers. I suspect the gist of the trade was indeed the lamb shank.
“You mean my shoes?” I said, not sure whether to be mad or perplexed that someone would actually trade a pair of shoes for a lamb shank. So I just took the lamb shank as he ate it in his boxers and slapped Jean Rene across the face with it. Soon the room was looking like something from a Robert Rodriguez movie, chunks of flesh scattered around, a fat bloated man with a beard enthralled by his crude conduct.
Zeno also ate two whole pizza’s by himself and a beef lasagne which he ate with hands, which did nothing to redeem him of being compared to a savage animal, something like a walrus with a beard that’s fluent in English.
En route to the super bowl where all the bands were performing, we found some young black kid probably about 16 years old sitting outside his hotel room, begging and knocking for his friends to let him in. He had cornrows and wore one of those Ecko t-shirts with graffiti all over them and he looked like he needed saving. He said he hadn’t seen his friends in like 6 hours and was “generally fucked!”
“You got booze you little bitch?” asked McGee who has no tolerance for children or anyone without a set of tits.
“No my friends have it all,” he said looking like a puppy with dysentry. I immediately pulled out a plastic bottle of whiskey from the mini bar and threw it at him, “drink this you pussy, come roll with us, your fag friends are probably at the Superbowl.” I have no idea why I was so mean to him… but yet so nice.
Fuck the Superbowl, a venue built to house probably up to 2000 people had about 50 people inside. We didn’t even look for the young kid’s friends. Zeno stayed behind because he’s such a responsible journalist and all while myself and the rest of the boys ventured off into the casinos shouting profanities and random sentences to anyone we thought looked strange or just deserved it. The look on the young kid’s face said, “it’s so cool hanging out with older guys, no one can fuck with us, but I’m a bit scared”.
Out of the blue McGee introduces us to an old white lady who wasn’t much of a looker but had a curious look in her eye when we told her we were journalists and offered to take us into the V.I.P casino. McGee then turns to the young kid and says, “fuck off now, you’re too young.” We walked into the casino without the kid and Mcgee then asks the lady “Who did you come here with?”
“My Husband.” We looked at each other and saw trouble, but this was all forgotten when she pulled out stacks of money to the amount of R10000 which she placed on a bet at the Black Jack tables. I immediately placed a R10 bet hoping God was on my side. I immediately lost and started to complain incessantly, which resulted in the staff asking me to “simmer down a bit.”
“Do you know how lucky you guys are to get in here? It’s only because of me.” The old white bitch kept reiterating to us like we didn’t know.
“Can we get a drink please?” Jean Rene asked.
“What do you guys want?” she said.
“Champagne please.” Jean Rene has expensive taste.
“Bottle of Moet, please.” She said, the waiters weren’t too happy about this for some reason, they were not happy at all to be serving us the champagne on the white woman’s husband’s money. We were pretty fucking ecstatic and couldn’t stop talking and laughing and in our ignorance singing out “Hi Julle”. This is not the type of behaviour they tolerate in a V.I.P Casino, but then again we were probably just embarrassing the poor lady because McGee caught her signalling the pit bosses to tell us to keep quiet, which got McGee really pissed off and he voiced this disapproval, which eventually got us kicked out and luckily without a scratch on my pristine, sexy fucking face.
It was 1am and we were like, there’s nothing else to do, let’s go to the hotel room and en route to the hotel room we came across our adopted and discarded black child from earlier on, who was in a heated argument with his friends who’d abandoned him.
“Are you the cunts that abandoned your friend here?” I asked the pimply faced, hair gelled Ed Hardy wearing youth.
“Fuck off, who the fuck are you?”
“Who the fuck am I? I’m the guy that had to hang out with your sad little friend while you were out jerking each other off!” The group of boys approached ready to throw blows but hesitated when they caught sight of MCGee’s thick moustache which basically screams, “Cannibal”.
“Fuck off then, go hang out with your friends then you poes” They said to the black kid as he pleaded with them not to fight and for them to take him back.
The group of boys walked away and the deserter stood with big eyes full of questions, just staring at us, “well we’re going to our room to go sleep now…cheers boet nice meeting you.” I said to him. We saw, we came, we left that bitch pregnant without a cent of child support or any quality time.
All pics © Justin McGee